


An Alpha Worth Fighting For

by amazingpages



Category: Mulan (1998), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Mostly) Everyone is a Werewolf, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mulan (1998) Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Fae & Fairies, False Identity, M/M, Magic, Mild Blood and Gore, Misunderstandings, Omega!Stiles, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pack Dynamics, References to Mpreg, Slow Build, The Alpha Pack, Werewolf Mates, alpha!Derek, no actual mpreg though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingpages/pseuds/amazingpages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen Wolf/Mulan AU.</p><p>After totally screwing up in his mating ceremony, Stiles thinks finding a mate is the worst of his problems. As the Stilinski omega, it is his duty to carry on their bloodline, no matter how much he rebels against societal conventions and pack norms. But as news of the Alpha Pack invading California spreads, secrets and problems from the past begin to resurface, causing chaos within the districts. Stiles' troubles increase ten-fold when his father enlists to fight, despite his injured heart. So, Stiles decides to take matters into his own hands and take his father's place. By joining the war, he'll prove to his father and everyone else that omegas are useful for more than just mating and breeding. It’s the perfect plan.</p><p>But what happens when Stiles begins to fall for the one alpha he could never be mated to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few notes on this universe:
> 
> There are a few things different about this universe, the first of them being that multiple alphas always make up a pack. There is one head alpha, then a rank of alphas below them, and then the betas. Omegas are on the lowest “tier”, and only one omega is born to each generation in each individual pack. It is the omegas who carry on the bloodline of that pack. So, while there are any number of omegas from various packs, it is vital that a pack’s omega is mated to an alpha to continue that bloodline (though not necessarily with an alpha from that same pack). This hierarchy of alphas, however, also allows for packs within packs.
> 
> The Hale pack is considered royalty, and their alphas are very strong, having been around for the longest. All other alphas and their packs within the border of California defer to them as the leaders of the collective California Pack. The Hale territory stretches across the entire state of California, and they rule over all the various packs within those perimeters. Within the state are districts, and each district has a governing pack that leads the packs in that area. An alpha from the head pack of each district is appointed as liaison, and these liaisons form the Council, who meet with one another and the Hale alphas to make decisions for the entire California Pack. 
> 
> I hope that isn't too confusing!
> 
> This fic also follows the Disney movie _Mulan_ , so if you see similarities in some scenes, those bits are being shamelessly borrowed and I claim no ownership to them. While I think the fic does a good job of breaking down who is who, if things get too complicated let me know and I’ll explain it more for you guys.
> 
> Also, I started writing this fic awhile ago, so current/recent seasons of TW are being entirely disregarded.
> 
> This is my first time writing a fusion/crossover fic, so I hope you enjoy it! :)

The night is cool and clear, quiet even, as the nocturnal creatures spur into motion. Braeden jogs stealthily along her sector of the border. It's been a month since she was on duty, having been temporarily transferred to train some new scouts that were just recruited. Being back in the solitude of her post is a relief and she's smiling at the quiet hum of the forest around her. She can feel the steady thrum of her heart beating in time with her steps; the familiar motions are comforting.

A large crack sounds through the brush, too loud to be made by any of the woodland creatures that frequent this area. Braeden pauses mid-stride as she lets her other senses take over, listening for additional movement and sniffing the air.

She can't pick up on anything out of the ordinary, senses nothing out of place, and wonders if maybe she'd imagined the sound. She's about to move onwards when she hears another crack, this one coming from the opposite direction, where the border lies. Turning around, her brow wrinkles in confusion as she creeps closer, still not registering any foreign scents.

It isn't until she walks a little further that Braeden sees the shadowy outlines of something in the trees a few hundred yards away.

"Show yourself!" she calls out.

Normally she'd add a warning about trespassing on Hale territory, but she doesn't catch the scent of anything threatening. Not to mention, their borders are lined with any number of spells and even a precautionary ring of mountain ash to keep out unwanted creatures of supernatural orientation. No werewolves venture this deep into the northern woods without an escort, but she’s come across lost pups from time to time. It wouldn’t do to completely scare off a young one if they’ve gone astray.

The shadows gain definition and features as the stranger moves forward, stepping into the waning moonlight that filters through the canopy of trees. Braeden is already approaching amicably when she fumbles to a quick stop, her eyes darting around as she registers more shapes in the darkness. Suddenly, she realizes that she can’t smell anything, supernatural _or_ otherwise, yet that is clearly not what her eyes see before her. Surrounding her now are at least thirty werewolves that she can still neither sense nor smell, despite seeing them with her very eyes.

Braeden’s gaze flits back to the first man, who is decidedly _not_ a lost pup, taking in the growing smirk on his face and the distinctive cane he carries with him. Now that he is out of the shadows, Braeden can see the characteristic traits of an alpha, even though he is the only one not shifted. He has the height and bulk indicative of his rank, his brown hair is cropped short, and his presence alone calls for her wolf to submit to him. Only an alpha from one’s own pack can leave wounds that scar, and the frighteningly large number of scars marring this alpha’s skin indicate a leadership that is hard won.

Braeden can hardly get her legs to obey her as she scrambles backwards, tripping helplessly over tree roots and animal burrows when her body is suddenly seized up in some sort of enchantment. It’s frightening, having her senses blocked and her limbs not responding. She can’t even shift, her wolf instincts cut off almost entirely. Braeden manages to let out a loud howl of distress before she falls down completely, her body frozen on the forest floor. Even so, she can faintly hear as her warning howl is picked up and passed along down the border by other scouts in the area.

"The pack knows you’re here," she says, her voice shaking. “They’ll know it was you.”

The man steps forward, pressing the sharp end of his cane viciously against her throat as his eyes burn a sickly red. The smirk on his face borders on crazy as he drags the point slowly down her sternum; if Braeden's limbs weren't already frozen in place she thinks that look alone would stop her in her tracks.

"Perfect."

Braeden doesn't hear anything beyond the sickening crunch as his cane is thrust violently through her chest. Her vision goes black.

 

***

 

"My lady, I request a private audience!"

Laura Hale bursts into the main chamber of the California Pack Court, ignoring proper decorum in favor of efficiency. She rushes past various members of the pack council who are seated at the long table taking up most of the room. The battered t-shirt and shorts she is wearing from training must look disgraceful in front of these people, dressed in their fine clothes and jewels, but she pays that no heed. There was a time when she feared the council and its many members, when she thought that _they_ were the law, but that was back when she was still a pup. Now, as second-in-command of the Hale Pack and liaison to all Californian packs below theirs, _she_ rules over the alphas of the council.

“It is a matter of great urgency,” she says in a lower voice when she reaches the head of the table.

Seated there is Talia Hale, her mother and head alpha to both the Hale Pack and the many packs of California. Looking at her mother is almost like looking into a mirror, for they share the same black hair and keen brown eyes, Talia’s features merely softened with age. Belatedly, Laura bows to her alpha and then to the rest of the council.

“Very well,” Talia says after a beat of silence, pushing her chair back to stand. She turns to address the alphas seated before her. “Please excuse us. We will reconvene once this matter has been settled.”

There is rustling and muttered conversations as the members of the council gather their various papers and belongings before filing out of the room. Laura takes the spare moments to compose herself, though her heartbeat is still slightly erratic in her distress. One council member remains, walking towards them from the other end of the table, but Laura disregards him as she turns to her mother.

“The Alpha Pack have crossed our northern borders,” Laura says quickly, the words rushing out once Talia’s attention is focused on her. “They were intercepted by a scout late last night, and updates from our patrols indicate they are headed towards the capital.”

“That’s impossible,” the man suddenly interrupts. “No werewolf can cross over mountain ash. If the seal had been broken our enchantments would have warned us.”

“Do you doubt my word, Uncle Peter?” Laura asks harshly. “Clearly a werewolf _can_ and has. An entire pack of them.” Peter stops whatever he was about to say, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “We do not yet know how they broke the other enchantments—a recruited coven of witches most likely—but the mountain ash was still firmly intact after their arrival.”

Laura turns back to Talia, who has been watching the exchange in silence. “Deucalion is leading them.”

The atmosphere had been apprehensive before, but the tension in the room increases tenfold with that declaration. Even Talia, who has remained rather stoic up to now, sits back down in her chair, face strained and pale.

“We must get you out of range and set up defenses around the other head alphas immediately,” Laura advises.

Talia is already shaking her head in disagreement. “No. I know Deucalion. He won’t settle for just me. He’ll want to tear down the ranks of our packs just to prove a point.”

“But mother, our alphas are strong—”

“ _No_. This is not up for discussion, Laura. Peter?”

Peter steps forward, a smirk on his face as he stands at Talia’s side. “My lady?”

“Notify the council. Apprise them of the situation at hand.” She pauses and looks up at him. “All of them are still in contact with their district packs?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. Accompany each of them and deliver notices throughout every district. Call up as many alphas as possible. If their packs cannot function safely without them, enlist only the firstborn. Inform them that their betas must be ready to muster at a moment’s notice.”

Laura presses her lips closed to keep from arguing. Hale alphas have taken down many enemies in their time, and this seems no different. But she knows there is a lot of history that is being left unsaid. Deucalion is an alpha whispered about in the dark, someone nobody dares to speak of in public. Anytime his name comes up in the council, Talia dismisses the topic without discussion. The feud between Talia and Deucalion has existed since before Laura was even born, yet anyone who actually knows the truth of such matters has been forbidden to speak of it.

But still, there are rumors. Some say Talia and Deucalion were bonded as closely as two alphas could be, until she left to mate with another. Others say Deucalion tried to force her to submit the Hale pack to him once she became head alpha. There are also those who think Deucalion just went rogue and targeted Talia because of her control over every pack along the west coast. Whatever the case may be, the truth is buried beneath a swirl of hearsay, and Laura’s never gotten a straight answer from her mother whenever she’s brought it up.

Laura sees her mother glance over at her, and she tries to look obeisant.

“Laura, you know nothing of what Deucalion is capable of,” Talia says gently. “We must make use of every werewolf, elite or not, and fight as one. It is our only hope.”

 

***

 

“Respectful...obedient…”

Stiles heaves in a deep breath, his mumbling fading away into a snore. He exhales, the papers blowing away from him where his face is smashed into the carpet. Sleep has transformed his bed into a warzone of mussed sheets and blankets, and Stiles has gravitated to his usual position of perpendicular slumber, half of his body hanging over one side of the bed while the rest lies haphazardly across the mattress. The bedroom is silent apart from his quiet respirations, sunlight filtering softly through the sheer curtains hanging over his window. A particularly loud snore jerks him into wakefulness and Stiles struggles to orient himself, but gravity is faster, pulling his flailing body hard onto the carpeted floor.

“Arghh!” Stiles cries, jerking upright amidst a circle of papers and notes as he untangles his legs from the blankets they’re twisted in. He looks blearily around his room, taking in the bright sunlight and the bustling he can hear faintly from outside. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Stiles glances over to his bedside clock.

“Oh, shit! Mom’s gonna kill me!”

Stiles is up and running, all drowsiness forgotten in lieu of rushing around. He grabs a shirt from the floor and sniffs it before shrugging it on, then scrambles around for a pair of jeans that aren’t too wrinkled. After running a cursory hand through his hair, he dashes over to the large tank sitting on top of his dresser and peers inside.

“Wish me luck, Batman!” Stiles runs his hand along the smooth, warm scales of his boa constrictor a few times, then closes and secures the lid of the tank. “Today’s the big day!”

It takes him ten minutes to gather some leftovers and drive out to the security station. It’s a large brick building near the center of town, and Stiles knows almost everyone who works there. Most of the guards are retired alphas who used to fight in some capacity or another, but have moved on to simple patrol duties. The rest are pack betas who work as contractors and deal with the paperwork side of things. Alpha John Stilinski is in charge of the entire facility. Stiles doesn’t bother to stay and chat with some of the beta employees like he normally would. Instead, he beelines straight for his dad’s office, bursting inside without so much as a cursory knock.

“Brought your lunch, Dad! You better not be eating fast food again,” Stiles says, as John scrambles to shove a bag that smells suspiciously of grease and fried chicken underneath his desk. Stiles holds up a large container that looks like it’s filled with green mush. “Remember, Deaton said no saturated fats!”

“Son, you should already be with your mother,” John says, frowning.

“Your heart is weak enough as it is,” Stiles continues, “you don’t need to be eating that crap.”

Stiles sets to work opening the container and dishing out a large portion. He sets it on the desk, ignoring the disgusted look John sends him, unwilling to cave on this matter. Stiles was too young to remember the attack that resulted in his father’s condition, but the consequences sit before him nonetheless. One tiny sliver of silver shrapnel lies eternally embedded in his father’s heart, and he knows his father feels a constant throb of pain from it as a daily reminder. When John doesn’t stick to a strict diet and modified exercise regimen, the toll on his weakened heart is immense. So they sit in a stalemate, Stiles staring pointedly at the food until John sighs in resignation.

“You need to go. As the Stilinski omega, we’re counting on you—”

“To be mated to an alpha of repute,” Stiles interrupts. “I _know_ , dad! I won’t let you down, I promise!”

Stiles stays until he sees John force a bite of the mystery food into his mouth, before saying goodbye and rushing back out in the same manner he entered, choosing not to call John out on the lingering scent of french fries.

 

***

 

“Claudia, where is he? The mating ceremony waits for no omega.”

Claudia Stilinski stands at the door of the clothing shop, wringing her hands as she peers down both ends of the street. She glances back at Beta Lela Mahealani, the local seamstress, and shrugs helplessly.

“You know Stiles,” she says. In a lower voice she mutters, “I should have asked the emissaries for guidance.”

Lela mentions something about her sewing kit and disappears into the back room, leaving Claudia on her own. Suddenly, Stiles comes racing up the street in his Jeep, barreling to a stop and parking halfway up on the curb, barely taking the time to turn off the engine before leaping out.  He runs over to his mother, all flailing limbs and rambling apologies.

“I’m here!” he cries, leaning over with his hands braced on his knees to catch his breath.

“Where have you been?” Claudia whispers, her voice full of worry. “I thought Beta Mahealani was going to bite my head off.”

“Mom, I’m sorry, I had to drop off some food for—”

“None of your excuses!” she says in a raised voice, trying to sound reprimanding when Lela reenters the room. Stiles shoots her a knowing look, smirking. “Let’s get you cleaned up," Claudia continues. "You can’t go into a mating ceremony scented like that.”

“Like what?” Stiles asks, sniffing his shoulder cautiously.

Claudia pushes him into the back where a washroom is set up behind a hanging curtain. “Like your father.”

“You should never smell too strongly of any alpha during your mating ceremony, or you risk being left unclaimed," Lela quotes sternly.

Stiles scoffs as he strips behind the curtain. "How can they expect me not to smell like an alpha I've lived with my entire life?"

Lela wrenches the curtain back before Stiles can fully cover his bare skin with a towel. He yelps, jumping back and trying to cover himself.

"That is precisely why omega cleanser exists," Lela says haughtily. "It masks those scents until your mate can scent you properly. Didn't you read any of the handbooks for today?"

"Umm..."

"Well, nevermind that now," Claudia interrupts, tying the towel properly around Stiles’ hips. "It's too late to fix that. We do, however, need to get you fitted, or you’ll be going to the ceremony with nothing proper to wear.”

The next hour is spent in a flurry of needles and fabric, quick hemmings and adjustments being made until Stiles stands in a suit that is almost uncomfortable in its tailored perfection. He’s used to his normal clothes, which are almost always a size too big. It’s strange having fabric rub so closely on his sensitive skin.

Claudia and Lela stand to the side, nodding happily to themselves.

“That will have to do,” Lela says. She gestures for him to undress. “Now get that off and wash up quickly. There isn’t much time.”

Stiles scrambles out of his clothes once more, this time making some kind of effort not to wrinkle them or drag them across the floor. He picks up the aforementioned bottle of cleanser from a side table, opening it. A terrible smell is released once the cap is off, and Stiles gags. Even to his limited omega senses, the cleanser smells repulsive.

“Are you sure this is safe?” he calls out, dabbing a small amount onto his skin with a grimace. There’s no response from the women, but his skin doesn’t spontaneously combust so he figures it can’t be too harmful. Besides, after a few minutes the smell seems to dissipate and Stiles thinks maybe the cleanser is doing its job after all. It doesn’t take too long after that for him to finish washing up and get dressed again, but he already feels strange. The familiar scents of home and pack that he is used to being surrounded by are gone, replaced by a generic scent and crisp new fabric. It’s unsettling, like having one’s comfort blanket taken away without any warning whatsoever, and Stiles feels bare without the scent of his pack.

He emerges cautiously from behind the curtain, hoping not to get attacked by the women again, but they aren’t there. He finds them out in the front of the store chatting quietly. They both look up when he enters the room, and his mother smiles sweetly.

“Sweetheart, you look perfect.”

Stiles blushes awkwardly, not used to showing such affection in front of those who aren’t a part of his immediate pack. His mother approaches before he can think of what to say, running her hands across his shoulders to smooth the fabric, and picking off imaginary pieces of fuzz. He leans into her touch, but she pulls away almost as fast, as though realizing that scent marking him all over again would defeat the purpose of the cleanser. She then pulls something out of her pocket, pinning it to the lapel of his jacket. When Stiles looks down, he sees it is one of his father’s badges.

“Mom, why—”

“Your father wanted you to wear this today, in honor of your pack,” Claudia says, smiling. “He’s very proud of you, you know.”

Stiles is blushing again, and he thinks if his face heats up any more he might burst into flames.

“ _Mom_ ,” he complains, even though he’s secretly pleased by all of the praise.

“Yes, yes, I know.” She pats his cheek. “I have something for you as well.”

Stiles looks at the small thing his mother has handed him. It’s brown and wrinkled, covered with a thin layer of fur, and small enough to look dwarfed by his palm. “What _is_ it?”

Claudia purses her lips for a moment before answering. “I...don’t exactly know. Some sort of Greenberg charm. It was given to me by the Stilinski omega before me, and now it is yours, to grant you luck.”

“How’s a wrinkled old thing like this supposed to grant me luck?” Stiles holds it out warily to inspect. “Does it even work?”

“Don’t question the magic,” Claudia instructs as she guides him towards the front door, hands braced warmly on his shoulders. She’s clearly trying to stay serious, but her lips are twitching into a smile anyway. “Witch enchantments don’t make sense most of the time anyway.”

 

***

 

“Omega Stilinski!” a harsh voice cries out.

Stiles takes a moment to say goodbye to Danielle, Heather, and Bennett, some other omegas he knows from the district who he was waiting with, and heads towards the caller. The room they’ve all gathered in is quite large, and the opulence of the mansion itself is mirrored in the lavish decorations of the room. The mansion is set on the eastern edge of Beacon Hills, where the more upscale alphas and their families live. Stiles can pick out a few of those packs’ omegas in the room, but for the most part it’s a healthy mix. Surrounding him are omegas from many of the surrounding districts as well, all here in the hopes of being mated today. The omegas are many different shapes and sizes, but while they might not have the same wealth, they all have the familiarity of their rank in common.

“Over here!” Stiles calls, waving his arm and stumbling through a particularly stingy group of omegas to reach the front of the room.

The alpha standing before him raises his brows, appraising Stiles with disdain. The alpha mutters snidely as he marks something down on the clipboard he’s carrying, his movements swift and harsh. “Follow me.”

 _Rude_ , Stiles thinks as he trails behind the alpha. He’s led down a few halls before they come to another room that still manages to look as grandiose as the rest of the mansion, despite the relatively bare walls. The room itself isn’t very large; it doesn’t have the vaulted ceilings that the great room did, and the long line of alphas along one wall serve to make the room seem even smaller. There’s also a table set up on one side of the room, but Stiles’ eyes are focused on the werewolves.

The alpha who lead him there gestures towards one alpha standing apart from the others, also holding a clipboard. Stiles recognizes him instantly as Alpha Adrian Harris, head of the Harris pack. The man is a legend, having paired up more mates across the country in the past twenty years than any other matchmaker. His ceremonies are revered, and for him to travel this far west to offer his services is quite rare.

Still, Stiles can’t help but feel nervous as he approaches the matchmaker, eyes lowered respectfully to the ground. He knows many of his fellow omegas are bursting with excitement at this chance to be mated, but it sounds more like a death sentence to him. His family has been lenient with him, Stiles is well aware of that, so perhaps the feeling of dread at being mated to another alpha can be partially attributed to the freedom he knows he’ll lose. But Stiles also can’t help but wonder what else there is to life beyond deferring to an alpha he’ll be forever mated to. It seems like all he’s done is live in a bubble not of his own making. Stiles is scared to give up what little freedom he has to a life of compliance and passivity.

He’s drawn from his introspection by Alpha Harris, who has started circling him.

“Too skinny,” Harris says. “Not good for bearing pups.”

Stiles frowns. He knows he’s not the sturdiest omega around, but he likes his body. Unlike the wide hips and extra weight most omegas have, Stiles has a leaner, toned frame. His skin is pale and smooth, his hair grown out. Stiles enjoys being slim—unlike the alphas lined up, who are bulky and hairy, with close-cropped hair and tanned skin covered in callouses. He may have yet to master the grace and elegance of an omega, but Stiles knows he at least _looks_ the part.

“Hmm.” Harris scrawls down a few more notes before tucking the clipboard beneath his arm. “This way.”

Stiles is led over to where the alphas are lined up on one wall, looking like a barricade of werewolves. Most of them are at least six inches taller than him, and they have enough muscles combined to make Stiles feel dwarfed by comparison.

“Proceed down the line,” Harris instructs. “Slowly.”

Awkwardly, Stiles walks before the alphas. He feels like maybe he should be showing off or something to make himself look good, but between all of the eyes on him and the overwhelming scents of so many alphas, it’s all he can do to make his legs work properly. The wolf inside of him is urging him constantly to yield to the alphas before him; Stiles hates how easily his body is willing to offer itself to a complete stranger.

The alphas are blatantly scenting him as he walks past and it’s making him very uncomfortable, especially without the smells of his own pack to clearly show who he belongs to. Harris makes him walk back and forth in front of the alphas three times before telling him he can stop. Stiles deflates and heaves a sigh of relief. Nobody told him this ceremony would be so nerve-wracking. It’s bad enough that so much is riding on this without having to present his body to a bunch of alphas.

Harris walks down to where a table is set up with various items set upon it. “To please your alpha, you must maintain the duties of their pack with dignity and refinement. Your primary objective should always be to honor and respect your alpha. Your actions are a reflection of your mate.”

Stiles is asked to complete a number of tasks, from domestic chores to following basic commands, and he can already tell his fumbling is being noted meticulously by Alpha Harris. It’s daunting to have to perform in front of so many alphas at once, but he does his best, trying not to look too clumsy. He comes to the end of the table with no more left to do and stands there awkwardly for a good minute before addressing the alpha.

“Um, Alpha Harris…”

“Silence!” Harris commands. “You do not speak unless spoken to. Now, recite the omega code.”

Stiles freezes for a moment, struggling to remember how it starts. Harris’ scrutiny isn’t helping and Stiles can feel his heartbeat speed up as his anxiety grows.

“O-omegas must abide by the decrees of their alphas,” Stiles begins hesitantly. “An omega supports and obeys his mate at any cost to himself. Providing an heir is the honor and duty of every omega. An omega heir is of utmost necessity and must be regarded above all else. It is an omega’s role to submit to their mate...”

Stiles knows there’s more to it, but he can’t think of what comes next. He suddenly wishes he’d studied it more before, rather than putting it off. It’s not like avoiding his code would keep him out of the mating ceremonies or make the laws any less applicable to him. Picking at the hem of his sleeve, Stiles fidgets mindlessly, trying to recall the rest of the code.

“And...um,” Stiles falters.

“ _Well_?” Harris looks more impatient by the second.

“Look,” Stiles says, frustrated, “If you’d just give me a second—”

“How _dare_ you command an alpha!” Harris roars in outrage. His eyes glow red, and the sudden push of energy causes Stiles to stumble backwards into the table. He knocks over a basin of liquid, the solution splashing all over his clothes and Alpha Harris as well. When Stiles goes to try and mop it off of Harris with a clean cloth, he is knocked away by a strong hand.

“Do not approach me without permission!” Harris is practically vibrating with anger and Stiles can’t help but cower on the floor where he’s fallen, clutching his cheek. The pain dissipates almost immediately, but the memory of it does not. He can feel the omega inside of him urging him to submit to the alpha’s command, despite Stiles’ mind rebelling against it entirely. Harris may be an alpha, and he may rank above Stiles, but he isn’t _pack_ , and the idea of submitting to a mate is hard enough for Stiles to wrap his mind around, let alone every other alpha that comes along in his life.

Belatedly, Stiles wonders if maybe this is why his parents have aimed to keep him so secluded from others for most of his life. Not because he’s the precious Stilinski Omega, needing to be kept safe for their bloodline to continue for another generation. No, they must have known how much Stiles would rebel against societal conventions, against the pack norms that have sought to oppress and shame him since the day he was born an omega.

Omegas may be prized, but they are in no way respected.

“You are a disgrace to both your pack and your kind,” Harris hisses viciously. “You are not worthy to be mated to an alpha. Any descendants of yours will be tainted by the dishonor of their parentage.”

Stiles has to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out. So many words bubble up in his throat, his loathing for the alpha in front of him growing by the second. For months, the town has been buzzing with gossip about the famed Alpha Harris and his enchanting ways. But as Stiles forces himself to keep his eyes lowered, he can’t help but feel utter disgust for the werewolf standing over him. There is nothing enchanting about his domineering manner. Stiles has lived with his father (also a head alpha) his entire life and never once has he felt like the scum that Harris is so vividly describing him to be.

“Get out of my sight,” Harris scoffs.

That is one command Stiles is more than willing to obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd you guys think? :D
> 
> I already have the next couple of chapters completely plotted out and partly written, so I'll try to get them finished and edited soon. I'm a bit of perfectionist, so bear with me, haha.
> 
> Keep in mind, I'll be adding tags as I go, and the rating will probably change in the future.
> 
> If you'd like to chat more or hang out, feel free to visit me on [tumblr](http://miss-emrys.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Stiles' mating ceremony fiasco, he finds a way to prove himself to his father and his pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of the lovely comments and support so far! Here's the next chapter for your reading pleasure. :)

Stiles is lying in his bed a few hours later, having a staring contest with Batman as the day’s events spin endlessly through his head.

He screwed it up. He completely bombed his mating ceremony. Despite all of the apprehension and nerves he’s harbored over the past few weeks, never in his worst nightmares had he expected to walk away from today without a potential mate. He figured he’d suffer through some courting, drag out the entire process while he thought of some loophole to give him more time before he had to mate. That situation, while not exactly ideal, he could have at least dealt with somehow. Instead, here he sits with no alpha and no prospects. To make things worse, he’d been sent away with the shame and humiliation of dishonoring his pack.

He is such a poor excuse for an omega.

For a moment, Stiles wonders if maybe he did the right thing. He’s heard the horror stories of mated pairs—broken bonds, abuse, incompatibility, infertility. Those things are bad enough in a normal relationship, but for any of those things to happen to an omega would be ten times worse than any other mated pair. It could happen to him. He could be left with a hollow shell of a relationship, mated to someone with whom he is physically compatible, but who can’t even stand the sight of him. There has to be more to a relationship than that...right? Perhaps he’s let himself buy into the whole soulmate thing a little too much. Because, at the end of the day, bonds like the one his parents have don’t happen to just anyone.

His dad is a head alpha, his mom is an omega, and they have a soul bond if he’s ever seen one. That’s something Stiles can’t even dream of having. But he isn’t asking for the perfect love story. He just doesn’t want to miss out on something more. He can’t imagine living his entire life mated to someone who doesn’t create even a hint of a spark in him, who would rather him keep silent than speak his mind.

The fact that Stiles’ entire pack is counting on him to make the right decision and keep the bloodline alive doesn’t make the situation any easier. He feels selfish for wanting so much, but he can’t help feeling that this mating game isn’t meant for him. It’s not that mating is bad. It just feels...wrong. Stiles didn’t expect to feel so severely out of place at the ceremony, no matter how much he’d prepared himself for it. And then he’d gone and messed everything up. All of his pack’s plans, his father’s plans—oh, no.

His _father_.

His dad is going to hate him now. Stiles is going to die alone, with no mate, and no pack to turn to, all because of his _stupid_ , idealistic, wishful thinking.

Pushing off of his bed with a huff, Stiles starts to strip down, unable to stand being in his suit any longer. It’s still damp from whatever he’d spilled all over himself and Alpha Harris, reminding him constantly of his mistakes. Not to mention, he could really use some comforting scents right about now. Being surrounded by the smell of stale, odorless fabric is suffocating. Before taking off his pants, he pulls the Greenberg charm out and sets it carefully on his desk. He also unpins his father’s badge from the suit jacket and places it next to Greenberg. Tokens from both of his parents, but neither of them were enough to keep Stiles from screwing things up.

He’s just pulling on a pair of sweatpants when there’s a knock on his door. Stiles debates ignoring it; he can smell his dad on the other side, but his senses aren’t strong enough to decipher his dad’s mood through the thick wood. After a moment of hesitation, he decides to answer it. Better to get this over with sooner rather than later. Surely his father’s heard the news by now. Nothing ever stays secret in this town for long. Stiles walks over and opens the door, heading back to sit on his bed without meeting his dad’s eyes.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Stiles continues to stare down at his knees, as though fascinated with the well-worn fabric. He can’t bear to look up, to see the disappointment or the anger on his dad’s face. What he isn’t expecting is to be pulled into a tight hug. Shock keeps Stiles from reciprocating it, his arms hanging limply at his sides as his dad squeezes him tighter for a few moments before releasing him.

“Dad, wha—?”

John cuts him off. “Son, have I ever told you how your mother and I met?”

The sudden topic change leaves Stiles speechless for a moment, and his mind scrambles to catch up. He was expecting some yelling, maybe even a punishment. But his dad wants to talk about his mom? Stiles falters. “Um, mom’s always said it was love at first sight. I mean, I guess your mating ceremony went pretty quick, huh?” Stiles tries for a joke, but it falls flat.

“We never had a mating ceremony,” John says, shaking his head.

 _Never had a mating ceremony?_ Stiles runs over those words in his head, but they don’t make any sense. For an omega to mate outside of a ceremony...it’s _unheard_ of. Suddenly he’s bursting with questions, eager to know more, but John simply raises a hand to halt all of the words rushing to burst out of Stiles’ mouth.

“I was new to my position at the time; your grandfather had passed away barely a year before, so I hardly knew what it meant to run a pack, let alone an entire district,” John begins. “There was a state conference a few districts over, and all of the head alphas were expected to attend.”

John looks down at his hands, a small smile on his face. “I didn’t want to go. The head alpha who was hosting the conference...well, let’s just say we didn’t get along so well. But my pack was counting on me to lead, and I had to prove I could handle the role of head alpha. So I went.”

Stiles turns his body to watch his dad, completely fascinated. His dad has never been one to talk much, always subscribing to the belief that actions speak louder than words. In fact, Stiles can’t remember his dad ever sharing so much in one sitting without prompting. Usually it’s his mom who does the talking, while his dad smiles and interjects silly comments. Despite having so many questions, Stiles is loathe to interrupt him, afraid his dad will realize how out of character it is and not finish the story. It's nice to hear his perspective for a change.

“The conference itself went well,” John continues, “and the last day there was just meant for celebration of some new treaties that had been made. The entire pack from that district attended the festivities, along with all the visiting alphas, and that’s when I met her.” John’s voice takes on an almost dreamy quality. He’s staring off into the distance, and it’s clear he’s remembering something from another time. “It wasn’t love at first sight, even though your mom likes to paint it that way. But there was a spark there, no doubt about it. I actually made a complete ass out of myself, trying to impress her with my new position. But your mom, she...she called me out on it. It was the best argument I’d ever had.”

John shakes his head, as if trying to focus back on the present. “I’d been through six mating ceremonies before then, and nothing hit me so hard as talking with your mom that night. I couldn’t leave without her. It took a lot of begging though. I had to bite the bullet and practically swear my life away to her stingy alpha just to get a courting contract settled.” John smiles. “But it was the best choice I’ve ever made.”

As if just now realizing Stiles is still in the room, John glances over at him, but Stiles is lost for words. “Son, what I’m trying to say is that your time will come.” John wraps one arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “Finding someone in the ceremony would’ve been fine, but it’s not the end of the world. You’ve only just come of age. There’s still plenty of time to meet your mate.”

For some reason, Stiles has always assumed his parents met at a ceremony. He’s never heard of an omega being mated any other way. This knowledge gives him a small bit of comfort, that all hope may not be lost for him. But he still can’t imagine where he would meet someone else. Stiles isn’t a head alpha like his dad. Hell, he’s not _an alpha_ , period. Meeting someone other than the people in town whom he’s known his entire life would require going places. Stiles can’t even leave his own home without an escort.

The bit of hope that momentarily blossomed in his chest is extinguished just as quickly with that niggling thought. Stiles feels almost resigned to his fate of being alone. But one glance at his dad’s expectant face and Stiles immediately shoves all ideas of solitude to the back of his mind, not wanting to worry his dad unnecessarily with such gloomy thoughts. He tries to look at the bright side—for his father, if nothing else.

Besides, his dad just said he still has plenty of time. Stiles _does_ feel marginally better about his situation when put in that sort of light. He’s still young, and he knows that even if he were being courted right now he wouldn’t be mated for at least another six months. The reassurance that he has his father’s support to wait is soothing. Maybe there is someone out there for him after all.

Stiles hopes so.

 

***

 

After his talk with his dad, Stiles pushes all thoughts of the ceremony from his mind for the time being. Instead, he goes downstairs to help his mother make dinner. Claudia has already begun chopping vegetables and she shoots him a small smile when he joins her in the kitchen, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before resuming her task. He loves that about his mom—she doesn’t bother to offer him weak platitudes or try to cheer him up. His mom knows him better than anyone else and she simply lets him know that she’s there for him; her endless encouragement is instantly reassuring.

Stiles returns her smile then pulls some steaks out of the sink where they had been thawing. He is about to start marinating the meat when a series of howls erupt outside. Stiles freezes where he’s bent over in front of the spice cabinet. “What is that?”

The howls break out again, this time louder than before, and the sound sends shivers up Stiles’ spine. These are not the howls of his pack, nor are they like anything he’s ever heard before. They sound like a summons, and he feels compelled to follow them even as his dad pushes him back inside the kitchen.

“Stay here,” John instructs. “Claudia, with me.”

“But, dad—”

John turns around, his eyes flashing red. “Do _not_ follow us,” he commands.

Stiles immediately shrinks back from the order, but he’s already thinking of what else he can do as his parents head outside towards the howls. He’s been disobeying his father long enough to know how to find loopholes in his commands. Since he was told not to follow, Stiles waits a few minutes before slipping out of the back of the house, running quickly through the woods in the opposite direction. He runs full circle, until he is standing at the other end of the town proper.

It’s hard to see over the heads of so many alphas and betas, but Stiles is nothing if not resourceful. Carefully, he climbs one of the many trees lining the edge of the square, until he can see the small group of visitors standing in a circle in the middle of the crowd. He recognizes one of them as their council member, the alpha who represents their district in the capital, but the others look unfamiliar. Stiles isn’t sure why their council member would be here anyway; his next visit to the district isn’t meant to be for another few weeks, at least.

Stiles watches as his father steps forward with some other Beacon Hills alphas to greet the man at the front, but Stiles almost falls out of the tree when his father bends over into a low bow. There’s only one pack who can evoke such submission from a head alpha. The stranger must be of the Hale Pack. Stiles watches the exchange closely, straining his senses to hear what is being said.

“Alphas of Beacon Hills,” the man says in a deep voice, “I am Alpha Peter Hale of the Hale Pack, and I bear orders from the capital. The Alpha Pack have crossed our borders and have invaded California. They are wreaking havoc across the districts and they _must be stopped_."

Shocked murmurs rush through the crowd at his words and Stiles reels back, shocked for the second time in as many minutes. The Alpha Pack? To him, they’re legends. Something out of a story book. Sure, Stiles has heard the stories of the devastation they have wrought across America over the years, but he has never been old enough to really be affected by any of what he is told. Besides, it’s been almost ten years since California has had anything to do with them. But Stiles can tell from the distress in the crowd that the danger is real. Many of these packs have alphas old enough to have fought against the Alpha Pack at some point, back when it had just begun to form. It’s unsettling to think that they’re being told about a situation that could amount to another war in the near future.

Peter waits for everyone to settle down before pulling out a thick envelope and handing it to Stiles’ father. “By order of Lady Talia, alphas from every pack must serve with the state Pack. They are to report to the capital in three day’s time. Any available betas should prepare to be called upon to fight as well.”

Few times has Stiles seen his father rendered speechless, but this is one of them. John stands straight, his shoulders squared as he nods his understanding. When he finds his voice, he responds, “A rescript with the list of alphas will be formed immediately, Alpha Hale. Will you stay until it is compiled?”

Peter nods, and the small group he arrived with is quickly ushered through the crowd. Stiles sees his father stop to talk with one of his betas who soon rushes off, and Stiles assumes his father is summoning all of the head alphas to meet together and discuss who will be chosen. Before he is spotted by the dispersing crowd, Stiles quickly scrambles down from his perch and heads back into the trees. But he can’t stop thinking about everything he just heard.

California has been peaceful for so long; it’s hard to imagine people from his pack, people he _knows,_ going off to fight in some war. He realizes they’re lucky they aren’t required to relinquish _all_ of their alphas. Only one or two alphas from each pack will likely be assigned to report to the capital, but Stiles still worries. Everything is very real all of a sudden, and the things he’s been worrying about lately—namely, his mating ceremony—seem so trivial now.

Beacon Hills is one of the smaller districts, with only eleven packs residing together. Some of the larger districts have hundreds of packs to call upon. When Stiles tries to think how many alphas the Hales must be conscripting to fight, the threat of the Alpha Pack seems even bigger than before. They must be extremely worried to go to such drastic measures. The thought of the famous Hales having something to be afraid of is almost more frightening than war itself.

But the Alpha Pack...they’re not exactly something to brush aside. A pack made entirely of alphas is a brutal one. There’s no balance of betas and omegas to offset the brash intensity that alphas bring to a pack, or to calm the more violent urges they possess. It’s what makes the Alpha Pack so formidable. Without that stability, an alpha’s focus narrows down to the baser instincts of nature: to conquer, hunt, and kill. And if they’ve been building this pack since before Stiles was born...how large must it be _now_?

A sound nearby drags Stiles from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been wandering in the preserve for almost half an hour. He quickly starts heading back to town, hoping he can get home before his parents notice he’s gone. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been caught going out on his own, but for some reason Stiles thinks that today would be a bad day to upset his father. He slips quietly in through the back of the house, coming in the same way he left. He can already hear his father’s voice in the living room, which doesn’t bode well, but before he can move further into the house his eyes catch on the thick envelope lying on the table before him.

It looks just like the one that Alpha Hale had handed to his father.

Stiles wants to open it and see what’s inside. There’s a moment of hesitation while he debates the morality of it, but Stiles has never been one to deny his curiosity. With a quick glance around to make sure nobody can see him, Stiles swiftly lifts the flap, pulls out the thick sheets of folded paper bearing the Hale seal, and begins to read. There’s the usual formal jargon and everything that Alpha Hale had announced in the square, but below it are numbered lines upon which names have been freshly written. Stiles realizes these are the alphas who have been chosen to fight.

His eyes quickly scan down the list, registering the names of alphas from some of the other packs in Beacon Hills:

**_Mahealani Pack_ **  
Alpha Daniel Mahealani

**_Graeme Pack_ **  
Alpha Tara Graeme

**_Parrish Pack_ **  
Alpha Jordan Parrish

**_Hilliard Pack_ **  
Alpha Elise Hilliard

But, as worried as Stiles is about sending alphas from their district off to a possible war, his mind is only focused on one pack. When his eyes scan down the rest of the list and reach the name listed at the bottom, Stiles almost drops the papers he’s holding. Because there, written in his father’s own handwriting, is his father’s name.

**_Stilinski Pack_ **  
Alpha John Stilinski

Stiles doesn’t even think as he rushes into the next room where he’d heard his father just before, papers still clutched in his hand. As soon as he sees his father, Stiles rushes up to him, ignoring everything else.

“Dad, you can’t go!” He can see his dad’s eyes widen when he registers what Stiles is holding, but Stiles doesn’t give him a chance to respond before barrelling on. “Please, there must be someone else who can do this!” Stiles pleads. “You’ve already served the Hales; your heart can’t take the strain of another war!”

John is opening his mouth to respond when another voice calls out and cuts him off.

“Silence!”

Stiles turns around, his mouth dropping open when he sees that he’s not alone with his family. The visiting alphas, including Alpha Peter Hale and the local council member of Beacon Hills, are seated in the room. His weak senses hadn’t even registered the unfamiliar scents when he was in the other room, and Stiles is mortified. He can see his mother standing in the corner of the seating area, clearly upset at the turn of events, but unwilling to say anything out of turn in front of the alphas.

Peter stands regally, turning to address Stiles’ father. “Alpha Stilinski, you would do well to teach your omega to hold his tongue in an alpha’s presence.”

“But—” Stiles starts to protest, but this time it is his father who cuts him off.

“ _Omega Stilinski_.”

Stiles freezes in place, the words hitting him like a bucket of ice water poured over his head. Never in his life has his father referred to him by his status alone. Though many werewolves use their status as a formal greeting between strangers, it is a severe insult to be addressed by it among family. He turns to face his father, his gaze aimed steadily at the floor in submission.

“It is time you learn your place in this pack,” John continues, his tone harsh and unyielding. “You _will_ hold your tongue.”

Stiles has to close his eyes to keep the tears at bay. He knows he’s embarrassed his father by speaking so boldly to him, especially in front of company. But his father's words still tear through Stiles like nothing else could. Despite knowing he is an omega, he has never felt his status weigh so heavily upon him as it does right now. He can feel the disappointment radiating from his father like tangible waves. Not only that, but his father is also going to go out and throw his life away for some displaced sense of honor in protecting his pack, when there are plenty of other young alphas to fight for California.

Stiles can’t decide if he’s more upset or angry at the situation, but as soon as he is dismissed from the room he charges upstairs, leaving his humiliation behind.

 

***

 

For the second time today Stiles secludes himself in his room, but this time he is fuming. He refuses to go downstairs, even after he hears their guests leave and smells dinner being prepared and served. Neither of his parents come up to get him though, so it’s not like he’s wanted down there anyway.

 _It is time you learn your place in this pack_.

His father’s words run in a loop through his head. What _is_ his place? He has no mate, despite his earlier conviction that he would someday, _maybe_ , find one. Right now he feels like the scum of the pack. Not to mention, he can’t even prove he’s worthy of doing anything else, because nobody will bother to listen to an omega in the first place. Stiles has seen the way his mother has had to back down from herself for the sake of his father’s opinions. Today is a perfect example of that. Given the choice, he knows his mother would make someone else go off to fight. But she doesn’t have the right to make that decision. She hardly even has a voice at all, despite his father’s diplomacy in most cases.

Stiles doesn’t want to become that omega.

As much as Stiles loves and admires his mother, he can’t see himself being like her. He was born into this world crying and screaming, and his mouth hasn’t closed since. Stiles feels a constant need to be heard and to have someone actually care about what he has to say. He needs to feel needed, and for something _other_ than continuing the family line.

Stiles rolls over on his bed, pausing when he feels papers crinkle beneath him. He sits up for a moment, realizing he’d carried the list of alphas upstairs with him. For a moment, all he can do is stare down at the names, as though they might magically change if he wills it strongly enough. He meant what he said downstairs—he doesn’t think his father’s heart can withstand the demands of another war. In fact, he _knows_ it can’t. If his dad can’t even manage to eat a bit of fatty food without feeling the effects, how can he possibly think he’ll survive a _war_?

There must be another way.

Stiles knows his father won’t budge on the decision. There’s no way he could be convinced to send another alpha in his stead now that he’s committed to go. And even as desperate as Stiles is, he draws the line at “accidentally” harming his father so he would be unable to leave.

Stiles freezes in place as he hears his parents come up the stairs and pass by his room on their way to bed. They don’t even stop to say goodnight, and Stiles wonders bitterly if they’d even notice if he was missing right now. He’s up here trying to save his father, and they could care less. He could have slipped out of his window hours ago and they probably wouldn’t even realize it until the morning.

_Wait a minute. That’s it!_

All of a sudden, an idea starts forming in Stiles’ head. His father won’t send another alpha, but what if he doesn’t have to? This could be Stiles’ chance to prove to his father and everyone else that omegas are useful for more than just mating and breeding. It’s the perfect plan because he’d be killing two birds with one stone: keeping his father out of the war and showing everyone what omegas are really made of.

It doesn’t take Stiles long to decide on a plan of action. Now that he’s made the choice to take his father’s place, everything else is just details. He waits until his parents have been asleep for awhile, thankful they are heavy sleepers. Then he goes to work. As he looks into the mirror, he realizes his appearance is the first thing that needs fixing. There’s no way he could pass for an alpha looking the way he does now, with his slim frame and long, sleek hair. He retrieves the electric razor he uses for his practically nonexistent facial hair and begins shaving off his hair until it’s in a short buzz cut.

When he glances into the mirror, Stiles is a little taken aback at how different he already looks. He’s never seen himself (or any other omega, for that matter) with hair shorter than shoulder-length, and it’s very strange. The planes of his face seem more angular without long hair to soften the edges, and he can actually _see_ how much his ears really stick out. He snorts at his reflection in amusement before stripping off his hair-covered shirt.

Now, what to do about his body? He couldn’t possibly bulk up in less than a week on his own, and it’s not like he has his own emissary to call upon for a magical hulk transformation. After some consideration, Stiles decides his best option is to wear multiple layers to give the illusion of being thicker than he is. He has the advantage of being taller than most omegas, so even if he doesn’t look like a total meathead, he can at least pass for a scrawny alpha. Rather than piling his own clothing on, however, Stiles sneaks into his father’s room and raids his closet.

The borrowed clothes will do a lot to cover his omega scent, and since he’s always lived in close proximity to his father, the scent won’t seem out of place on him. Stiles slips on four thick t-shirts and a pair of his dad’s boxers, but opts to wear his own jeans and a plaid overshirt so that he won’t look entirely dwarfed by the oversized clothing hiding underneath. A close inspection in the mirror leaves Stiles pretty proud of his handiwork. It’s not bad, considering his complete lack of planning. He wishes he could do something about his pale skin, but at least his many unsanctioned ventures outside have left him tanner than most omegas. Besides, he’s already going to look different than the other alphas, so hopefully the oddity will work to his advantage.

Stiles glances around the room to see if he's forgetting anything and his eyes catch on his father’s badge. The weight of what he’s about to do suddenly feels almost suffocating, and Stiles sits down on his bed, his head between his legs. He knows this is what he wants, and he doesn’t see any other option if he wants his dad to stay safe. Still, it’s a big thing to pull off, and not without its consequences; the pressure of his decision causes him to second-guess himself. It takes him a minute to calm down, another minute to give himself a good pep talk, and then he is able to stand once more on sure legs.

He takes a moment to scribble out instructions on how to care for Batman, and sets the note on his desk next to the boa’s tank. Then he grabs his father’s badge and the alpha list with the instructions to get through headquarters. As an afterthought, Stiles stuffs Greenberg into his pocket before leaving the room. A little luck couldn’t hurt, right? It only takes Stiles a moment to slip back into his parents’ bedroom and leave the badge sitting on their nightstand, and then he’s on his way outside. Pushing his Jeep quietly out of the driveway and partway down the street takes a bit of effort, but once he’s far enough out of range he quickly starts the engine and is on his way.

This is only the beginning of the road ahead, but Stiles already feels like he’s actually accomplishing something for once in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know quite a few of you were expecting a little more action, but I needed a place to cut off the chapter and this was a good spot. In the next chapter, expect the pace to pick up! You'll also meet some characters who are very important to the story, so keep your eyes peeled for some goodies and some baddies! ;)
> 
> As always, you can catch me on [tumblr](http://miss-emrys.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I answered some of the questions I’ve received from you guys in the end notes, but for now let’s get to the fic!

“Alpha Stilinski.”

Of all the people who have shown up on Alan Deaton’s doorstep in the middle of the night, Alpha John Stilinski has never been one of them. Deaton has been an emissary in this district for over twenty years, and not once has John broken protocol. A clandestine trip under the cover of darkness isn't really his style. He is a man of the law, and sticks to the books in all matters but one: his only son. The fact that he is here at three AM is both worrisome and intriguing. As Deaton invites him inside, John recounts the events of the past day, ending with the unknown whereabouts of his son.

“Claudia and I awoke a little while ago,” John explains. His voice is calm, but there is fear lingering in his eyes. “Something felt strange, and when I saw the badge I had given him sitting on my nightstand...I think he’s set off for the capital, Alan.” The frown on John’s face deepens. “His Jeep is gone, he took the directions and official forms for my conscription...we have to get him before it’s too late.”

“I cannot leave the district to help Omega Stilinski,” Deaton says immediately, raising a hand to stall John from debating his point. “My power rests in my bond with you, as the head alpha. It has always been so. If I transfer my power elsewhere it would weaken our bond, as you well know. Putting that kind of strain on your pack and the district of Beacon Hills at this crucial time would not be wise.”

John shakes his head, his frustration evident on his face. “I can’t let him go out there on his own!”

They are silent as Deaton considers their options. He knows from the most recent reports that all of the emissaries in surrounding districts are tied up with their own packs, so calling on any of them for assistance isn't an option. Plus, this is a situation that they cannot afford to share with outsiders, or even others within the district. Stiles is an important member of their pack, but that will mean nothing if anyone finds out that he has broken the basic laws of hierarchy that govern their society. No, they have to keep this between as few people as possible. It is the only way to ensure Stiles' safety.

“I may know of someone who can help,” Deaton says finally, leading John back through the house until they are standing in his office. “My sister is an emissary as well. She has been in training these past few years before she becomes fully bonded with a pack. The institute isn’t far from headquarters, where Omega Stilinski is surely headed.”

“Could she guide him without the bond?” John asks. His hands are braced on the back of a chair, the strain of his white-knuckled grip echoing through his tense body.

Deaton nods slowly, considering it. “Yes, I believe so. Her skills will be weaker without a true bond, but perhaps she can still provide guidance to Omega Stilinski. Given the nature of his situation, I cannot guarantee success, but she could offer her assistance all the same. Is that what you wish?”

“Yes,” John agrees forcefully. “I’ll take whatever she can give.”

“I will send word at once.” Deaton moves to sit at his desk, but then pauses, looking up at John. “But you _must_ keep silent on this matter. Omega Stilinski is breaking many codes by leaving our territory without a mate or escort. Should he attempt what we believe he will, the situation could escalate exponentially. If anyone finds out an unattached omega is wandering free among alphas, it would mean terrible danger for your son.”

“We won’t breathe a word, Alan,” John swears. He walks over to the other side of Deaton’s desk, his face somber as he holds out his wrist.

Deaton clasps it and feels his own wrist gripped in return, magic flowing through their grasp to bind the agreement. The journey ahead will be a long one, and they will have to keep their pack bonds as tight as ever if they want to weather this storm and emerge unscathed.

“Lead well, John.”

 

***

 

Bobby Finstock is sulking indignantly as he pushes a cart laden with mail down one of the long hallways of the Fresno Emissary Institute. Just because he freelances around here now, everyone seems to think they can just assign him any crappy job they don’t feel like doing. He shoves at the cart, causing a few envelopes to slip out the sides, and he proceeds to step on them spitefully before turning around to pick them up.

“Like a damn pack mule,” he mutters angrily.

Five years ago, Finstock was the top dog here at the institute. He’d left the Court of Fae in search of acclaim for his talents, rather than his droll position as a spell worker. The skills he had weren’t being utilized the way he believed they should have been, and he’d found a veritable goldmine when he’d arrived at the institute. 

With his unique expertise, he had been a prime fount of knowledge for many packs. His ability to weave spells and concoct potions was practically revered, not to mention his experience with glamours and shapeshifting. Everyone had wanted his know-how, to be on good standing with him, and to get even a moment of instruction from him. Although emissaries and witches were both of magical persuasions, their learned upbringing meant they lacked the ability to fine-tune their spells to such exact specifications. That was a particular quality only granted to the fae, whose magic was woven into their very beings, and it was a skill in which Finstock was very adept.

But one little slip-up, one teensy _tiny_ spell gone wrong, and all of that had changed. Now he is the laughing stock of the institute. People disregard his opinions; most even consider him a little crazy. They use what skills he'd taught them and rub it in his face. And here he is, stuck doing the most menial jobs the institute has to offer, unable to return to the Court or be of any use.

Life sucks.

Snatching a bound stack of envelopes from the top of the pile, Finstock glances at the number stamped in the corner to make sure it corresponds with the room number he’s standing next to. Not bothering to knock, he barges into the office and tosses the stack onto the desk of some emissary, smirking a little when the envelopes knock an abandoned cup of coffee over on the desk.

“Serves ‘em right,” he says, smiling to himself, then moves on to the next room.

His morning proceeds in this fashion, though sometimes with a bit of yelling when he gets particularly frustrated by the ungrateful emissaries he is forced to cater to. It isn’t until he reaches a more familiar doorway that Finstock pauses, his mouth twisted into a frown. This office used to be his, when he’d been studying at the institute. He’d been proud of it, flaunting the research he’d worked on and his nameplate on the door. Now the nameplate reads **M. Morrell, Trainee** , and the sight of it twists his gut.

Marin Morrell has always thought a little too highly of herself, if you ask him. Just because she has a successful older brother doesn’t make her any sort of emissarial prodigy. She also never passes up any opportunity to rub her position in his face, despite the fact that he could hex her silent if he so wished. He is good at hexes; spellwork and shapeshifting have always been his forte. And he knows he’s better than Marin could ever hope to be. The thought of turning her into a stinky old rat brightens his mood enough for Finstock to grab the large manilla envelope bearing her name from the cart and proceed into her office.

Marin is sitting at her desk, clearly doing nothing of importance. But that doesn’t stop her from ignoring Finstock’s presence until he clears his throat, in some weak form of asserting dominance over him. After a few moments she finally glances up, smiling and leaning back in her chair arrogantly as she looks him over.

“Well, look what the wolves dragged in,” she says. “What can I do for you, Robby?”

Finstock grits his teeth, his semi-good mood fading rapidly. “It’s Bobby. But only my _friends_ get to call me that.”

Marin waves her hand in the air, as if the information is insignificant. “Don’t be so sensitive. Besides,” she smirks, “aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“For what?” Finstock scoffs.

“I’ve been asked to be an apprentice to Emissary Jennifer Blake of the _Hale_ Pack,” Marin taunts, clearly pleased with herself. “They say if it goes well, I could be added to their ranks in a permanent bond.”

Finstock sneers at her. The workings of werewolf packs are largely irrelevant to him now that he is no longer an official researcher at the institute, but seeing Marin succeed at anything makes him uncontrollably angry. It’s certainly not like she needs the ego boost, either.

“How unfortunate for them,” he finally says.

Marin’s eyes narrow. “You just wait. Pretty soon, _I’ll_ be the one with the ear of Talia Hale, and what do you think you’ll do when I convince her to outlaw all the rogue spellwork from you little fairies, hmm?”

“She would never do that!” Finstock says immediately, taking a step back in shock. He can’t even believe Marin would say that, let alone use it as a threat. While he knows it's unreasonable for him to believe she could even have such influence, the idea behind her threat is still unsettling. What has she to gain from such a thing as controlling the fae? “Lady Hale and my Queen have a long-standing treaty.”

“For now,” she replies, examining her nails disinterestedly. “I don’t see why you care, anyway. It’s not like your _Queen_ bothers to acknowledge your existence. It’s probably the only smart decision she’s ever made, really.”

Finstock’s had enough of her games. She isn’t even a part of the Hale pack yet and he doesn’t have to stand here and listen to her insult him. Stomping out of _his_ office, he slams the door behind him, pushing the cart violently down the hall and only belatedly realizing he never delivered her mail. Well. It serves her right to get it late.

Two hours later, all of the mail has been delivered, save for Marin’s envelope. Finstock debates leaving it downstairs to get added to tomorrow’s mail deliveries, but his conscience gets the better of him and he heads back up to her office. When he arrives upstairs, however, he finds that she’s already left for the day, despite it being just past noon. Huffing, Finstock looks down at the manilla envelope, then back up at her door. The envelope is labeled _URGENT_ and was clearly sent via overnight mail.

What could she possibly be doing as a trainee that requires an urgent message?

Fueled by leftover outrage at her claims that morning (and a healthy dose of curiosity), Finstock breaks the seal on the envelope and pulls out a single sheet of paper, bearing a handwritten note from her brother of all people. He scans over the contents of the short letter, his eyebrows steadily climbing up his forehead.

Well, now. This could be interesting.

 

***

 

Back at headquarters, Talia is in one of the smaller conference rooms, surrounded by her closest advisors. She sits at the head of an oblong table, the surface of which is obscured by numerous letters of correspondence that have come flooding in ever since the Alpha pack began attacking various districts throughout California. The lead Hale emissary, Jennifer Blake, is a tall brunette woman with a keen mind and an even sharper tongue. She currently holds a quiet conversation with Peter Hale while Talia attempts to skim through the letters before her. Laura is briefing a few other alphas on potential battle strategies when a beta is ushered into the room by the alphas on guard.

“Milady,” the beta greets with a bow. “The dispatched notices delivered to the districts have all been returned. Alphas from each pack have been selected and should be arriving within the next few days to begin training.”

“Good,” Talia says, continuing to scan the dispatches before her. It’s been less than a week since news of Deucalion had reached them, but the information is taking its toll on her. Lines of worry crease Talia’s face where before there were none, and her mouth is now pressed in a permanent frown. Stress keeps her muscles tense, belying the controlled façade she is trying to maintain. “What news of the Alpha pack?”

The beta scans his notes. “Our scouts have reported multiple confrontations with packs along the border within the last few hours. Every skirmish has been swift and harsh, but the Alpha pack doesn’t seem interested in engaging with any particular districts.”

“They’re trying to spread us thin by drawing our alphas to the smaller district’s aid,” Laura interjects, looking up from the schematics she has spread across the other end of the table.

Talia sighs. “And right now it’s working. We need these incoming alphas out in the field.”

“They will be trained as soon as everyone has arrived,” Laura assures her. "We’re working as quickly as possible, milady."

“It isn’t fast enough,” Talia argues. She knows they’re working as quickly as is safe, but there are still too many bases they haven’t covered. The mere fact that their alphas are not battle-ready is reason enough to worry. While it would have been impossible to predict a conflict of this magnitude with no prior warning, she still berates herself for letting the pack grow complacent. It's been many years since their alphas were taught any serious form of combat. Beyond the typical instruction to young alphas and betas on how to guard and protect their territory (most of which is instinctual anyways), no other preparation seemed necessary. That was clearly a blatant oversight on her part, because now all they’re doing is chasing their tails, trying to play catch-up while the Alpha pack taunts them. Pretty soon this game of hide-and-seek is going to turn more violent than it already is, and Talia fears they may not be prepared when it does. “Has Deucalion been seen during any of these attacks?”

“He’s not shy about showing up,” the beta replies slowly, “but we have not yet been able to predict his appearances.”

Talia rubs her forehead in frustration, pausing a moment to center her thoughts.  “Scouts?”

“Dispersed all across the border, attempting to track the Alpha pack’s movements. We are still trying to determine how many separate factions are present within his pack. Right now, there are too many of his head alphas unaccounted for to attempt an accurate calculation.”

“I want our best hunters on this. _Track him down_.”

The beta bows in acknowledgment and then retreats from the room to do her bidding. There is a pause in the business of the room as everyone waits for further commands from Talia.

“Jennifer, anything to add?”

“There have been no recent developments, milady,” Jennifer replies, turning to face Talia. “Our bonds remain strong. There are no reported breaks between any of the district emissaries and their bonded packs. After we are finished here, I will convene with the local coven to discuss the effects of the boundary disruptions on our border enchantments.”

“Very well. When is your new apprentice due to arrive?”

“Within the hour.”

Talia nods in approval. “I would like a formal introduction, when there is a moment to spare.”

“Of course, milady.”

After a moment of thought, Talia stands to address the room as a whole. “If everyone is up to speed, let us get back to business. There is much to do before the day is done and little time to spare.” She makes eye contact with each member of her inner circle before speaking. “Bring any immediate threats straight to me; all other correspondence goes through Peter. Any questions?” When nobody replies, she nods once more. “Serve well, my friends.”

 

***

 

Stiles has been driving south for two days and is about an hour away from headquarters when he decides to pull over to rest. What would normally be half a day’s drive has taken far longer than he expected, due to avoiding checkpoints and boundary enchantments. The stress of sneaking out, traveling through other districts without an escort, and trying to come up with explanations to give the alphas when he arrives is finally beginning to catch up with him. He doesn’t need to be there right away, so he has a little time to kill. Plus, it’ll be nice to relax for a few moments. He'll blow this entire charade if he shows up in his current frazzled state.

Stiles pulls off the road into a small copse of trees and parks his Jeep, then slouches down to get more comfortable. A nap sounds really good right now, and sleeping has always been a pretty solid cure-all for avoiding his problems. Just as he is about to nod off entirely, something slams into his windshield, jerking him into awareness. He expects to see a bird or stray pine cone, but instead finds a small creature _staring back at him_.

“Ahhhh!” Stiles shouts and flails away, scrambling over to the passenger seat.

“Stop yelling!” the thing says, putting small hands on its hips. “Do you want to get everyone’s attention?” Upon closer inspection, Stiles can see that the _thing_ is actually a small fairy. Though, to be fair, Stiles has only ever seen pictures of them, and doesn’t really know how to deal with one in person. All the stories he’s heard have always said that the fae are nasty little creatures that will wreak havoc upon anything if they can gain something from it.

So Stiles is wary when he asks, “Who are you?”

“Call me Finstock,” the fairy says. “And you’re the Bilinski kid, right?”

“ _Stilinski_ ,” Stiles corrects automatically. He’s even more confused now, though. How does a fairy know who he is? Especially this far from home? “What do you want?”

“I _want_ you to act a little more respectful in the presence of greatness,” Finstock says haughtily. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

“You don’t _look_ all that great,” Stiles says, despite himself. He’s being honest. Finstock is hardly more than a few inches tall, and even though he’s arrogantly perched on one of Stiles’ windshield wipers, he still doesn’t do a lot to intimidate, especially now that Stiles has had a moment to recover from his shock. Finstock’s not dressed like some of the pictures Stiles has seen though; everything about him looks like a normal person but in miniature, apart from his piercing green eyes and the delicate wings sprouting from his back.

“This is my fairy form,” Finstock taunts. “If you saw my _real_ incarnation you’d be shaking in your oversized plaid monstrosity.” He stops to sniff the air and then looks Stiles over with disdain. “What _are_ you wearing anyway? You look like a pup who broke into daddy’s closet.”

Stiles frowns, crossing his arms self-consciously. “It’s just a couple shirts,” he mumbles.

“And why do you smell like something _died_?”

“What? I don’t smell like something—” Stiles breaks off to sniff his underarms. “I can’t smell anything but pit sweat and the curly fries I had for lunch.”

Finstock’s wings flutter as he lifts off of his perch and flies inside one of the open windows, landing on the steering wheel across from Stiles. “The funk is coming from your left pocket,” Finstock says, plugging his nose dramatically.

Stiles lifts his hips off of the seat so he can shove a hand into his jeans, and pulls it back out, Greenberg in tow. “This? It’s a Greenberg charm. My mom gave it to me,” Stiles says, bringing it up to his face to sniff cautiously.

Finstock has already taken a few steps away in disgust. “You’re freakier than I thought, Bilinski. Do you make a habit of carrying around corpses?”

“Mom said it was good luck,” Stiles explains, holding his palm out warily, but now that Finstock’s mentioned corpses he’d rather just toss Greenberg out the window. He only keeps him because Greenberg was a gift from his mother and it’s all he has of her right now. “She told me all the omegas in her family have had it...”

Stiles hasn’t even finished his sentence before Finstock is rolling his eyes. “Do you werewolves not know _anything_? Luck charms, especially charms done by a baggy old hedgewitch, don’t last more than a couple years, tops,” he says. “That thing’s been worm food for generations.”

“How do _you_ know?” Stiles accuses, even though he’s more than inclined to believe that Greenberg doesn’t look all that alive. He didn’t even know the charm was _supposed_ to be alive.

“How do _I_ know?” Finstock scoffs. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”

“A puny little fairy?” Stiles ventures.

“Well, this _puny little fairy_ is gonna save your werewolf ass, so a little respect would be nice!” Finstock points a hand at Greenberg, the tips of his miniature fingers now sparkling with the beginnings of an enchantment. “First things first. Can’t have you toting around dead charms like some kind of freak.”

A set of sparks dart from Finstock’s hand straight to Greenberg, and Stiles jumps as the lifeless charm begins squirming in his hand. He can feel the effects of the spell immediately, a rush of magic coursing through his limbs as Finstock paces back and forth on the steering wheel, muttering to himself.

“What did you _do_?” Stiles asks incredulously.

“I gave that useless lump some _actual_ luck,” Finstock informs him, stopping his pacing to look Stiles up and down. “What size pants do you wear?” he asks Stiles. “Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven,” Stiles says defensively. The scrutiny Finstock is suddenly giving him makes Stiles uncomfortable, like the fairy can see through all of his layers to what’s hidden underneath.

Finstock rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll need to be at _least_ a thirty-two to pass muster.”

Stiles shrinks away, suddenly unsure of Finstock’s intentions. “What do you mean? I can’t just grow five sizes!”

“Ah, but that’s what you have me for, isn’t it?” Finstock says, waggling his sparkling fingers. “You’re the one who thought this little alpha drag show would get you somewhere. Now I’m the one who has to clean up your...mess.”

“I never asked for your help,” Stiles argues.

“Do you want to protect your father or not?” Finstock demands.

Stiles is silent for a moment. It’s true, he does want to help his dad. And he knows that it’ll be even harder to go back now that he’s already made it this far. But trusting a fairy? He doesn’t even know who this creature really is, or how Finstock knows so much about Stiles’ family. Sure, his dad is a head alpha and an honored veteran, but their district isn't prominent enough for his father to be known this far south. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

“What’s in it for you?” Stiles finally asks.

Sighing, Finstock hops off the steering wheel and flutters around the cab of Stiles’ Jeep, seemingly bored of standing. “Look, the people I work for don’t exactly respect what I can do anymore. It’s a long story. But if I _prove_ I’m still worth something, they’ll be begging me to come help them again. Making some omega into a war hero right under their noses? I'd say that would catch their eye. So I help you, you help me, and everyone’s happy. Are you in or out?”

It’s a tempting deal. Stiles is a little skeptical about the _war hero_ bit, but he could definitely use the help of a fairy. It would certainly make passing through the checkpoints a lot easier, if the stories about the fae are to be believed. Plus, he can definitely relate to Finstock’s struggles. After all, isn’t part of this entire ordeal about proving himself to his pack?

“Alright,” Stiles agrees. “But it’s gonna take more than Greenberg’s luck to get me past the alphas if even you can figure out I don’t belong.”

“It’s not that hard to see through all those ratty clothes,” Finstock says.

“Dude!” Stiles swats at him indignantly.

“Hey, now! Tone it down, Cujo!” Finstock yells, shooting little electric sparks at Stiles’ arms.

“Ah, stop!” Stiles cries, trying to cover up his skin as the remaining sparks fizzle out. “Stop, dude, I’m sorry! I’m just freaking out a little. I’ve never been around so many alphas by myself before.”

“That’s why _I’m_ here,” Finstock snaps. “Now stop acting like a little damsel. You’re not an omega anymore, you’re an alpha!”

“I don’t feel like one,” Stiles mutters.

“Yeah, well, you’ll at least look like one by the time I’m through.” Finstock rolls up his tiny sleeves, cracking his knuckles as though bracing for some serious work. “They don’t call me the Glamour Queen for nothing.”

 

***

 

“What are we even looking for, Vic?” Chris Argent complains, after they’ve rounded the same landmark for the third time. “We should head back to the border patrol. These forest trails have been deserted for years.”

“Which would make them the perfect cover for a rogue pack,” his wife counters, kissing his cheek playfully as she passes by him. She heads off to start a fourth trip around the paths. “What’s got you all worked up, anyway?”

Chris gives a resigned sigh, readjusting the pack on his shoulder and following her lead. “How about the fact that we’ve been assigned grunt duty, when others are out there preparing to actually _fight_?”

Victoria laughs softly, her melodic voice carrying through the space between them. “Scouting is not grunt work, you big grouch. Besides, we are some of the best at our job. It wouldn’t make sense to split us up when some of the larger packs—”

At the sound of a faint rustling far off in the trees, Victoria goes abruptly silent, falling back to stand at Chris’ side. The sounds increase and begin to come from more than one direction, making it very unlikely that any forest creature is the cause. The many directions also cut off any retreat they might consider, leaving them very few options. With no place to hide in such a sparse area of the forest, Victoria urges Chris silently up a nearby evergreen tree. They climb until they are obscured by the densest part of the branches, Victoria following more slowly behind to drop a few small packets on the ground, releasing scent blockers. Hopefully those will be enough to throw anyone off of their presence. They’ve circled through the area enough times today that their scents should be somewhat confusing to anyone trying to track them.

The two wait with bated breath, huddled together to blend in as best as they can under the circumstances. Chris feels a hand brush soothingly along the back of his neck, and his rapid heartbeat calms somewhat; they can’t afford to give away their position because he can’t manage to control the loud thrumming of his pulse. Being near his alpha helps with that, but it does nothing to quiet his nerves.

The rustling soon grows louder and is accompanied by voices as a group of werewolves stop somewhere below them. Chris can’t tell much about who exactly they are—the tree’s branches block most of his view of the ground below, and the scent blockers Victoria dropped prevent him from smelling much about them—but he can tell from their tones that this is not a friendly pack. The authority in their voices also tells him that they’re alphas. Those two factors alone mean they've probably encountered a small group from the Alpha pack, or a band of rogues at the very least, since it's unlikely any packs from the nearby districts would be roaming around right now. Suddenly, Chris isn't so happy to have found what they spent all day searching for, especially when he hears the hostility in the voices below them. He silently leans back into Victoria's chest for comfort as the alphas' conversation grows louder.

“I know they went this way!” growls a rough voice.

There’s a scoff and what sounds like someone being shoved. “You’ve been saying that for the past hour, shithead.”

“It’s not my fault _he_ lost the scent!”

“I didn’t lose it,” argues another, “the paths are all just blended together!”

Murmured arguments start rippling through the rest of the group, their words getting more and more heated until they all become unexpectedly quiet. There is the quiet shuffle of many approaching footsteps and then a resounding silence.

“Would someone like to explain why I have caught you standing about unawares, when it is you who should be doing the catching?”

The voice that speaks is a new arrival, and one that commands a lot of power. Chris can tell he is a head alpha without even having to see him. What frightens Chris (and, apparently, the werewolves below him) even more though, is the deadly calm way in which he speaks.

“Alpha, we were just—”

“Just…?” the no-nonsense voice cuts off the speaker before she can continue.

The silence below them is deafening, and Chris hardly dares to breathe. He wasn’t completely sure at first if the group of werewolves below him was just a pack of rogues or something more, but it is clearly the latter if they are answering to another alpha. Chris only knows of one pack made up entirely of alphas, and if this is really the Alpha pack below them, then that means the head alpha speaking is… Chris’ eyes widen in realization as he turns to look at Victoria, and he can see when recognition floods across her face as well. While he and his mate had been tracking the pack’s movements this past week, Chris never thought they would stumble upon such a large group of the Alpha pack, let alone Deucalion himself.

“If you choose to stand around in the open like prey,” Deucalion continues darkly, “don’t be surprised when you are no longer the predator.”

There is some awkward shuffling, nobody daring to reply.

“Now, while you were wasting time arguing, you failed to realize that you had already concluded your hunt.”

Chris strains his ears to hear what is said next, but he is jerked violently from his hiding spot before he can decipher it. He lands harshly upon the forest floor, Victoria falling ungracefully beside him. He pushes up slowly, glaring at the alpha who had snuck up behind them in the tree as the claw marks on his arm begin to heal. His wife is already standing in front of him, shielding his body with hers, heedless of her own injuries.

“Hale scouts,” Deucalion muses thoughtfully, in no rush at all as he addresses the pack of alphas surrounding him. When he circles back to face them he is smirking as he sweeps an arm out, gesturing at his pack. “Well done, Argents. You’ve found the Alpha pack.”

There are quiet snickers from the pack, but Chris refuses to take his eyes off of Deucalion for even a second. He also would rather not think about the fact that they are currently surrounded by an endless sea of alphas; far more than they could ever be prepared to evade on their own.

“How do you know who we are?” Victoria demands when Deucalion doesn’t elaborate. She takes a step back and the movement presses her up against Chris; he grasps the hand she holds out between them tightly in his own.

Deucalion chuckles. “I know quite a lot more than your _Alpha_ likes to admit,” he replies, matching her step with one of his own. “But as for you? Well. I guess you could say we’re practically _family_.”

The crowd behind him parts slowly to reveal a face Chris never could have imagined he’d see.

“... _Kate_?” he calls, voice cracking as he tries to step towards her. He’s blocked by his wife’s body before him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to scent the air, to find something, _anything_ , that might prove to him this isn’t a dream. It must be some kind of enchantment, a hallucination, he thinks; he’d felt his sister _die_ when her bond was severed from the pack eight years ago. She _couldn’t_ be here...could she?

“Hello, Chris,” Kate replies, eyes taunting as she walks forward. “Miss me?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Victoria commands urgently, clutching Chris’ hand even harder. He shudders, feeling torn between obeying his alpha and reaching out for the sister he never thought he’d see again.

“Your sister,” Deucalion says, “among many others, came to realize that the power being withheld from her by the alphas in charge should have been hers.” He turns to Kate. “And rightfully so.”

Kate bows her head respectfully. “I only did what any sane beta would have in my position,” she replies sweetly.

Victoria bares her teeth, eyes burning red in a challenge. “You mean you stripped another alpha of their powers because of greed! How is that sane?”

“Every wolf deserves a choice of power! And look how this pack has flourished because of it!” Kate says, her saccharine tone morphing into vexation as she gestures behind her.

“This _pack_ is an abomination,” Victoria argues viciously. “The power of an alpha is meant for maintaining order and harmony, _not_ personal gain! You would turn your back on your own pack, on your own _brother_ , just for what? A _rush_?”

“The Argents used to be a prominent pack,” Kate spits. “And now look what you’ve become! Does it not bother you that you are little more than a bug beneath the Hale’s _almighty_ shoe?”

“We function on more than just some insatiable rapacity! Our pack doesn’t _need_ power to have a reputation.”

“True,” Deucalion concedes with a tip of his head, sounding bored. He steps between the two alphas, effectively cutting off their argument. “You _do_ , however, need an alpha to have a pack.”

Before anyone can even react, Deucalion releases a silver blade from the end of his cane and whips it violently across Victoria’s neck. There is no remorse in his eyes as she crumples lifelessly to the ground, but the surge of increased power makes him inhale sharply. A hoarse cry punches out of Chris’ throat and he drops to the ground beside his mate, hands shaking as they hover inches above her body.

“Your sister has already joined our ranks,” Deucalion continues on blithely, as though nothing has happened. He watches Chris intently as he uses a patch of grass on the ground to wipe the blood from his blade. “You need only strip another alpha of their power to follow in her footsteps. As you can see,” Deucalion gestures at Victoria’s crumpled form, “it’s not that hard once you get the hang of it.”

Chris can feel the pull of Deucalion’s offer, his new status as Deucalion’s beta leaving him vulnerable to suggestion. The surrounding force of so many alphas makes him tremble, but he fights the fresh bond viciously, gripping tightly to Victoria’s limp hand. His eyes are like steel when he looks up at Deucalion. “ _Never_.”

“You were so promising as a child, Christopher,” Deucalion laments with affected disappointment. “Hopefully this will serve as a wake-up call.”

“I _will_ hunt you down,” Chris promises through gritted teeth.

“I look forward to it.”

Deucalion turns away, not worried in the least about turning his back on Chris, and the alphas around him follow suit, disappearing swiftly into the forest. Just before the shadows engulf him, Deucalion looks back, glowing red eyes piercing through the shadows. “And do tell Talia to give me something worth fighting against. I’ve grown rather tired of her efforts thus far.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it seems I can’t help but drag things out, hehe. I tried my best to get Derek into this chapter, but some other things needed to get set in motion first. You’ll be meeting him next chapter though, I promise! Also, some of you were wondering about whether Stiles would get a Mushu, and I hope Finstock didn’t disappoint. Mushu is my favorite character from the movie, so _of course_ I had to include him!
> 
> In regards to queries about an update schedule: I can’t say I really have one. I know that's not what you want to hear, but end-of-year testing is coming up for my students, so these next couple of months are going to be really crazy for me. (Unless any of you would like to do me a solid and somehow eradicate standardized testing? I’d love you forever!) Just know that I’m writing in my spare time, so please don’t get upset! I’m not going to promise I’ll post weekly or anything like that; let’s just settle for “consistent updates,” okay? :)
> 
> Thanks to all of you who have given kudos/commented/messaged me so far; I appreciate all of your feedback! <3
> 
> Feel free to chat with me more on [tumblr](http://miss-emrys.tumblr.com/).


End file.
